


Between Breaths

by LelithSugar



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Breathplay, Bruises, Choking, Don't Try This At Home, Established Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fantasizing, Fluff and Smut, Hand & Finger Kink, Kink Discovery, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Strangulation, canonical levels of violence mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 06:05:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18067979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: Harry doesn't notice a new kink blossoming until it's thoroughly taken hold. Eggsy's got it all under control.





	Between Breaths

**Author's Note:**

> Wahey, two from me in a week? Why not, indeed. Thank you to all of those who let me rant, bounce ideas, generally enable me etc. This one's just quick and dirty but it wanted writing and who was I to argue?
> 
> WARNING here for casually mentioned grisly violence, 'offscreen', and just in case it needs saying PLEASE do not attempt anything even in the realm of breathplay without doing all the research possible, be super super careful and DO NOT do it alone. Stay safe!

Between Breaths

 

Every now and then, Harry Hart - who has spent decades honing himself as the perfect gentleman - has lapses in his carefully maintained chivalrous deportment.

At least in his head. 

Externally he is sitting primly cross-legged, fingers to lips, paying absolute attention to Eggsy’s debrief over videolink whilst he flies home from a successful mission in unsuspecting Ottawa, so nobody need know that in his imagination he’s a few hours ahead, stripped naked and entangled in some sort of highly improbable position with that gorgeous young agent, or at least in immediate proximity to that gorgeous agent’s equally gorgeous cock.

It’s been a long couple of weeks. 

Harry would like to think that it’s just because he misses Eggsy that he tends to suffer so acutely from a one-track mind when he first gets eyes on him after a mission: that appetite he’s had so ably, enthusiastically quenched whilst he’s had Eggsy in his life, in his bed, comes bubbling up unbidden like struck oil, and Harry’s first thought when he sees him is often not ‘thank goodness he’s unharmed’ or ‘I can’t wait to welcome him home’ but a wordless, formless montage of flesh and sweat and  _ need _ .  

But sometimes, given space and time to percolate, it’s specifically  in response to something totally inappropriate that Harry feels that first kick of lust and he has to admit that’s not at all exclusive to reunions. There’ll be a stray, uninvited thought: a crease drawing his mind to the way the planes of muscle look under that suit, or Eggsy’s fingers on trigger or cufflink suddenly reminding him of the feeling of them working him quite that skillfully; some detail or nuance that sets Harry’s mind down a track that’s completely unbecoming of the gentleman he’s trying to keep everyone convinced he is. 

It’s the word  _ dispatched  _ that gets under Harry’s skin on this particular occasion, and sets the hairs on the back of his neck and arms prickling up.

It’s the most appropriate, in reality: the subjects killed not out of spite but necessity, not even that they die but that they no longer hinder the mission or cause whatever nuisance they’re causing. Eggsy has a very clear line of reasoning on that score, which keeps his conscience clean and his sleep untroubled: when someone poses a threat to the vulnerable, or is facilitating the plans of someone who does, he dispatches them as casually or as inventively, as cooly or as viscerally as the occasion calls for.  When Eggsy has decided that they must die, down they go.

It makes a funny, hot little shudder go up Harry’s back, that odd combination of pride and instinctive fear, of his natural attraction to skillful competence and … well, if Harry weren’t aroused by danger he’d probably have ended up in law, or accountancy.  

He’d belatedly got to watch the footage of the agent who wasn’t even a Kingsman -  and thus had no codename to occupy - tearing through a bunker of armed goons. Eggsy had nothing to lose: as far as he was concerned in that moment, Harry was dead, Eggsy himself was on a minimal amount of borrowed time, soon to be dead and so would everyone he loved and a huge chunk of the world’s population if he failed. Harry had also seen the feed of himself going berserk in the church which must have been fresh in Eggsy’s mind and seen that reflected in his mind-boggling efficiency: every step towards a kill, every shot on target. At the time: a mindless, animal fight for the survival of species already drowning in tragedy. 

In the luxury of his study, ten months later, it had turned Harry on.  _ Poetry in Motion   _ d oesn’t quite do justice for the lethal power Eggsy possesses, or for the way Harry admires it. Eggsy once snapped a man’s neck with his thighs, mid air, and it would be a stretch to say Harry was jealous, but if you’ve got to go sometime, somehow… 

He’s having a similar moment about the word  _ dispatched _ , applied to Eggsy who he now watches on screen via the camera in the jet’s lounge. Eggsy’s scrubbed conspicuously clean, not a fleck of blood to be found anywhere on the angles of his face, on the muscle of his forearms, but his intimidating build is much more evident in his thin, damp t-shirt than it was in his suit: all that corded muscle, all that coiled potential for brutality, just sitting there eating a sandwich whilst they reel off his kills.

In the interest of fair balance, it must be noted that Roxy emerges from the shower wearing a baggy college sweatshirt and Pusheen leggings just as Merlin notes that she garroted a man with someone else’s intestines. They’re all killers. But Eggsy is an assassin - formidably powerful, skilled, natural and merciless - and Harry has a rare realisation, rarer because he realises it’s free from the bias with which he usually views the boy and is in fact an unusual truth: In a fair fight, it’s possible Eggsy could kill him.

And that knowledge absolutely should not do what it does to Harry’s stomach, but he’d be lying if he said he was surprised.

***

Eggsy’s hands move precisely, automatically, through stripping down the customised machine gun and Harry revels in the distraction that’s been pervasive lately, visualising him in the heat of a firefight, casting aside his last empty magazine and resorting to the use of his bare hands. Those bare hands that can love Harry so tenderly, can bring such pleasure; that can snap and stab and strangle…  and true to recent form that’s where the fantasy fixes this time: on the sheer power Eggsy could assert with just one hand around Harry’s throat. That fabled edge of absolute ecstasy in his control. It’s the control - not the violence but the restraint and precision with which Eggsy can function as a weapon - that brings a flame to the skin under Harry’s cheeks, makes his mouth prickle like he’s starting to salivate just watching the deft and certain movements of Eggsy’s hands.

Those hands on his body. Those hands around his neck.

Of course - much like everyone who reached sexual maturity in the seventies -  Harry had played about with asphyxia, and been thoroughly put off by the misadventures of others before he’d really managed to feel what the fuss was about. No rush was worth the indignity of being found strangled with a pair of thirty denier tights… Harry at that age had enough to deal with just  _ owning _ the thirty denier tights. 

But Eggsy could do it, couldn’t he? He’s exactly the type Harry would have worryingly little compunction about letting get a little rough even if he didn’t trust him with his life, and of course he does, implicitly. Eggsy is strong and capable, clear-headed under pressure which in context one must only hope would extend to passion, if he were to get that bit carried away and decide to seize his conquest, his willing quarry, by the throat… 

Naturally, Harry gets caught staring.

“Harry.” It’s obvious from the tone that it’s at least the second time Eggsy’s spoken. One more and Harry’d be getting fingers clicked in front of his eyes. “What you got a face like a smacked arse for?”

“I’m a horrid human being.”

Eggsy smirks at him, at least half catching the drift of his thoughts as he knocks all the safety catches back into place and checks them with one final flourish.

“That all, eh? Call me when somethin’s new.” But his grin says he’s not going to let it drop. Not this time.

Harry has spent a fortnight or so weathering his increasingly specific interest in classic fashion: by being entirely obtuse and hoping what he wants just happens by merry accident, though what it would say about Eggsy if it did is another concern. Nonetheless, he’s spent  their romantic encounters moaning louder for the harder grips, tipping his head back and baring his throat, but Eggsy only ever bites. He doesn’t take the bait, or take advantage of Harry’s sudden suggestibility. Once, mid-fuck, Eggsy realises the splay of his hand pressed against Harry’s chest to pull Harry back onto him has slipped up to his collarbones, and he apologises and moves it down, his hold becoming so deliberately tender that in the moment it  _ almost  _ puts Harry off.

Because of course Eggsy fucks like a gentleman. Exactly how Harry taught him: partner first, always; clean up before and after yourself; no marks or fluids unless discussed; no roughhousing in general unless specifically asked for. Eggsy had been a little affronted that it was felt necessary to tell him. He might not have been too versed in variety of technique when he first arrived  but he resented the implication that the rest came with class: he wasn’t the spitting, slapping, hair pulling, name calling type, thank you very much...

And more’s the pity, as far as Harry is concerned. 

He  _ knows _ he only thinks that because he’s been spoiled rotten. He’s had over a year of Eggsy’s considerate, gentle, generous love - not quite exclusively as far as the physical is concerned but by their measures close enough - and he’s grateful for it, but it doesn’t stop him being  hungry to meet the ruthless animal Eggsy becomes in a fight on intimate terms. 

Harry clears his throat, entirely unnecessarily.  “There is something, actually.” 

Eggsy says nothing, but his clear bright smile says  _ of course there is.  _ And Harry isn’t… worried, as such, that his lover might think any worse of him for this than for any other of his sexual particularities - and Eggy’s got a few of his own, don’t let that boyish charm fool you -  but he hasn’t a clue where to start.

“Do I recall you saying, if I had or discovered any particular… fantasies, you’d be willing to consider them?”  Harry touches the back of his head, and looks down. Unnecessary. He wouldn’t even be starting if he didn’t know full well that was exactly what had been said, but something’s got to open and in the absence of any genius lines, that will suffice.

“Oh!” Says Eggsy, blinking in surprise which could be genuine: perhaps he hadn’t got quite the read on the situation Harry had thought.  “Well, if you’re being this cagey about it I ain’t so sure.” 

Harry coughs, wrong-footed. It’s taken enough of his bravery to line the words up behind his teeth and he hasn’t accounted for not having the rest wrung out of him. Eggsy sets his weapon down - safety in place - and wanders to where he can take a solicitous grip on Harry’s tie. 

“Nah I’m messing. Come on, don’t keep me in suspenders.” Eggsy nudges him with a gentle elbow.  “Is it actually suspenders? Told you I’d look lovely in lace!” They  _ know _ he looks lovely in lace, but there had indeed been a discussion about more where those panties had come from and the thought derails Harry from his intent, yet again, and he flounders under the amused challenge in Eggsy’s stare.  “I’m just gonna keep going until you pipe up. Heels. Rubber masks. Fisting. Bunnygirl outfit. Entire fucking animal costume. You a fucking  _ furry _ , Harry?”

“If you’d give me a moment to get a word in edgeways, I…” He coughs, and feels his face reddening. In the expectant silence; every one of the hundred ways he thought about phrasing this have totally evaporated and he forces himself to make some sort of noise so that he doesn’t squander this hard-earned opportunity, though at first it’s an awkward squeak from his throat - air being let out of the neck of a balloon -  and then it’s half a groan, then just blunt inelegance but it’s the best he can do. “I’ve realised I… have spent some time lately thinking about.” He swallows, and Christ that’s an effort. “Asphyxia. I think I’d like you to -” He mimes the seizing of an imaginary third party’s throat and completely gives up.

Eggsy faces him, grinning.  _ Grinning, _ full beam from ear to ear until his tongue tucks salaciously into the inside of his cheek, making it bulge enough to shift his glasses. 

“Are we talking vascular or tracheal?”

Spoken like a true killer, and that in itself makes Harry’s insides flinch with the sudden ferocity of arousal. He doesn’t know quite what he’d been expecting, really. 

Of course Eggsy’s been trained. Of course he understands minutely the different ways you can strangle someone, the effects and implications. It’s plain fact he feels he has ample command of both to offer a selection and Harry doesn’t doubt that for a minute. Besides, it’s obvious from his total lack of shock or reproach that he’s not adverse to the idea even if he’s surprised - and Harry knows better than to second guess Eggsy on such matters by now.

And the damndest thing is he hasn’t actually thought about the details. Well, he’s imagined the scenario in vivid technicolour but not spared a whit for the risks and implications, more wrapped up in the overall feel. 

“I suspect just the hold and a little pressure would push the right buttons…” —  _ But!  _ calls out his brain, ever treacherous, not happy about him aiming for a consolation prize, and somehow reading the purse of Eggsy’s lips and the arch of his eyebrow  as an invitation.  _ But!  _  “But the fantasy goes further, of course.”

Doesn’t it always? There can’t be many in their game without a keen awareness of the blurring between the fight, flight or fuck responses and they’ve all developed their own ways of scratching those itches. Eggsy knows Harry’s partial to the rough treatment, and he’s too much of a natural gent to do it without asking but when enthusiastically consented he’s definitely partial to a grab of the hair, to leaving dirty great bitemarks on Harry’s neck and shoulders that nicely rob him of any pretense of modesty in the gym or the showers or the fitting rooms. A hand around the neck could bruise too, and that thought causes another pang of excitement that almost makes Harry flinch. 

“How much further?”

“... a little black around the edges?”

Eggsy shakes his head, slow and wry, but the smile goes nowhere and there’s acceptance in the stretch of his fingers, the way he’s obviously considering the scenario without even asking for clarification whilst he’s looking down at them. 

“You’re remarkably level about all this.” Harry watches him smile down at his hands even as he takes the couple of steps to close the gap and curl himself around Harry’s body like smoke. “You knew, didn’t you.”

“Oh, come on babes. You’re hardly subtle.” Eggsy is flush up against his back now and just curling a hand gently round his throat, whispering hot in the very curl of Harry’s ear: “If you wanted me to choke you out you only ever had to ask.”

Lust and excitement shoot through Harry in a sudden shock.

“You little shit.”

“Careful,” murmurs Eggsy, and gives him the gentlest of squeezes and a slap on the arse that leaves Harry rock hard and throbbing as he saunters out. 

***

Eggsy becomes someone else entirely when entrusted with Harry’s fantasy, visible competent and painstaking.  He asks lots of questions - about the line of thought, the preferred mood, the preferred sensations, about triggers and signals and logistics - but he never once says he’s scared of hurting him.  Eggsy trusts his own skills, and knows Harry’s resilience, and that’s enough. It’s how Harry lets slip that the calculating, the calm in the absolute power over life and death is part of the appeal and Eggsy gives him a look so unreadably old fashioned he might have cut it straight out of an Austen novel.

“Can I have a dry run?” He pulls Harry’s collar open, already sure. One day Harry might get used to the thrill of this young man so casually undressing him, but he’s happy that it’s not just yet. “Could do with getting my head round it whilst I’m not balls deep, you know?”

“Well, certainly.” Harry ignores the little shudder the vulgarity gets out of him. The offhand confidence with which Eggsy handles the topic is as arousing as the thought that he’s going to experience at least part of his fantasy so soon, and if successful then again at a crucial moment of what would doubtless be a thoroughly decent fuck anyway. 

“Do it now if you want. Sit down.”

It’s almost an order and more than enough to get Harry’s blood rushing south. When Eggsy steps right up against him Harry can smell him, warm and sharp with freshly applied aftershave, and his hands are soft and clean when he flexes his fingers out and lays them gently on Harry’s neck. 

Eggsy blows his breath out so forcefully it almost whistles. “Okay, here we go. Last call for sane people who don’t get off thinking their boyfriend can do them in. No? Okay.”

The pressure comes so gently Harry almost doesn’t register the squeeze: he’s relaxed and comfortable, looking up into Eggsy’s cautiously curious eyes, and then his head’s swimming, tingling, his pulse heavy in his temples. Eggsy’s eyes darken - Harry knows that’s concentration but it’s beautiful - and he licks his bottom lip. Waits. Waits and Harry doesn’t know what he’s seeing because his own vision is juddering to the side, and he can breathe completely freely because all the pressure is on the sides of his throat… he just seems to be forgetting how, all that focus drawn instead to a sudden flood of physical arousal in its purest sense: fight or flight. His heartbeat quickens, near frantic. Is he frightened? Harry knows Eggsy would never hurt him but his instincts refuse to believe that, they’re busy telling him to get free, pumping him full of the energy to do it a little too late

Eggsy lets go and Harry sucks in a deep breath he doesn’t need, the blood going back to his head and the feeling rushing back to his extremities in a soaring wave and  _ Christ _ , it’s wonderful. 

The spots dancing in his vision almost form the shape of hearts around the head of his beautiful assailant. 

“Yeah? How was that?”

“Fine.” It was many things that doesn’t come close to, but what Eggsy needs to hear is that he’s unharmed and it was what he wanted. Harry understands that he’s asking for a critique rather than flattery and he might be slightly concerned that if he lets on how good he feels Eggsy might get sidetracked. “A little more… restriction, would be good.”

Eggsy shakes his head again.

“Fuckin’ell.” He rubs a hand up Harry’s back, smooth and warm, and Harry’s cock throbs insistently in his trousers. 

***

Sunday morning finds Harry on all fours, being pounded within an inch of his life,  face down in damp pillows that smell of coconut because Eggsy came to bed with his hair still wet and passed out without so much as a goodnight squeeze, which is probably why he woke up so enthusiastic.

Harry’s just enjoying the ride, not doing anything that even feels like putting effort in but Eggsy knows what he signed up for: he knows Harry’s  good for nothing in the mornings. Well,  _ nothing _ might be a bit of an injustice: he’s warm and willing, which seems to be plenty as far as Eggsy’s eager touches were concerned. His little murmurs and moans of gratitude when Harry had responded to his groping hands and neck kisses by stirring awake and spreading his legs rather than telling him where to go were easily enough to rouse Harry fully and my, wasn’t Eggsy making it worth his while.

Eggsy’s obvious need for it, his urgency, is a contagious thing and Harry finds himself swept up, groaning and swearing and writhing, not yet quite awake enough to process exactly how they got to this point or why it feels so fucking good; only that Eggsy’s raw power is bruising and only getting more confident in response to Harry’s weak, whining bliss. 

“Harry, babes…” It could be just appreciation, or a question, panted, an afterthought. “You want me to-?”

Harry has no real idea what he’s agreeing to until he’s winded: Eggsy launches forward, laying almost totally on Harry’s back, and wraps his arm around Harry’s neck. 

The sheer heat of him is incredible, and after a second to adjust to the deeper penetration - Harry will be feeling this all day, he couldn’t be happier about it - he realises Eggsy has him fairly pinned into submission. 

Harry distantly recognises the arm around the neck as classic Marines sleeper hold -  his throat cradled in the crook of Eggsy’s elbow - and the solidness of that squeeze between bicep and forearm is unforgivingly rigid, actually cutting off air unlike when Eggsy tried with the mere pressure of his thumbs.  He’s surrounded by the sharp tang of fresh sweat, hears himself gurgle and splutter for a breath that doesn’t make any difference because he’s already floating, pleasure and desperation a deafenng buzz. He isn’t sure how much control Eggsy can have over it in that position, when he can’t see Harry’s face to gauge it by and he could easily actually knock Harry out, get carried away and not notice Harry slipping out of consciousness until he’d finished… 

It becomes a moot point very quickly because around that thought Harry comes suddenly, violently, and collapses into a gasping heap right in the puddle.

***

Eggsy’s teeth catch Harry’s collarbones, his breath hot and heavy against the sting and Harry tips his head back, asking for more, too blissful and boneless to hold himself up. Eggsy’s running his hands up Harry’s legs, up his flanks and under his arse to pull him greedily onto his lap and sit them fully flush together, pleasure punching Harry in the guts and shocking a grateful moan out of him. Otherwise they’re wordless, urgent;  Eggsy thumbing and pinching at Harry’s nipples whilst he fucks into him, clearly on a mission to get them there as quickly as possible which means he is probably towards the end of his sexual tether - in itself an enticing thought, and Harry doesn’t need the encouragement. He rolls with the rocking of Eggsy’s hips and starts to push more forcefully back up against his grabbing, surging up to press their mouths together in nothing remotely resembling a kiss for all its teeth and tongue and heavy breathing. 

Eggsy gets rougher by turn, growling happily in his throat and grabbing a handful of Harry’s hair to yank him back by. Harry plays at resisting, because he can, because the tickle of pain when Eggsy pulls his hair and bites his neck feels lovely and this sort of frantic grappling when they fuck, though somehow instinctive, is rare enough to be a treat. 

When Eggsy allows a kiss, Harry bites his bottom lip hard and a laughing little groan tells him he’s  _ really _ done it now. He finds himself shoved back into the bed, held down with one of Eggsy’s hands in the centre of his chest, still for a moment whilst Eggsy pounds into his arse as if in punishment when in fact at that speed, that force, it makes pleasure judder roughly up Harry’s back, coarse and quick. It’s animal and basic and wonderful, sweaty and hard and all the things Harry loves most.

Eggsy pitches forwards, changing the distribution of his weight and then that hand is around Harry’s throat.

He’s not expecting it, no time to haul a breath in in preparation so the effect is almost instant:  Harry’s pulse thunders in his neck, against Eggsy’s hand, inside his head; the icy sweat of panic breaking out across his chest and along his shoulders automatically. 

Harry lets his hands drop back onto the bedding either side of his head, absolutely given over, submitting, and there’s something extra blazing in Eggsy’s eyes for that second that makes Harry even keener to show him how much he can take.  _ Not that there’s much choice _ , that tempting, luxurious purr of delirium in his head reminds him, because after these mere moments he finds he doesn’t have the strength in his arms to reposition them. Eggsy keeps up his grip and his focus, likely his thrusts too though Harry can only feel prickling numbness below Eggsy’s skillful, merciless hand.

The pressure pounds in Harry’s head and he floats in it, soft and high and warm, so warm...

He gives into it, into the swimming kaleidoscope obscuring Eggsy’s face, into the darkness,  his vision tunnelling as blood throbs hard in his ears, behind his eyes, the bliss in the rest of his body fading out but not gone, dammed up somewhere waiting to burst through. 

Eggsy whips his hand away, holding it up with a flourish and a hungry look in his blown-black eyes.

Reality crashes back onto Harry like a depth charge, hot sharp pleasure and a fast flowing, tingling ecstasy that floods his whole body in a rush, building quickly, sharp in his limbs and his core. Harry shakes violently with it, overwhelmed, swept up and surfing this gorgeous blossoming crest of ecstasy that rips a cry out of his aching throat and leaves him molten, pulsating pure bliss.

“Shit, fuck…” There’s concern in Eggsy’s wonder as he pulls from Harry’s body and Harry reassures him with as much of a chuckle as he can manage, patting weakly at Eggsy’s thigh, which is familiar enough to him to work; spreading his legs open and arching his back with the little energy he can muster to show him it’s important he doesn’t stop to check in now:  _ this isn’t finished until you are.  _

Breathless and slack jawed, Eggsy takes his cock in hand and it barely seems to take a second before he’s coming over Harry’s stomach, moaning his little  _ fuck, fuck oh fuck  _  sounds but Harry’s not sure he’s conscious all that time. He’s basking in the magical sparkles in his head, the tremors still wracking through him, the deep molten satisfaction in his whole body. He feels Eggsy’s come on his belly and he’s so hot that it actually feels cool on his skin, though that could be that his own is drying in the air… he doesn’t remember coming, in that sense: doesn’t remember his orgasm as something specifically centering on his prick but the mess on his stomach and the look on Eggsy’s face suggests it was impressive.

“Babes? Speak to me.” 

Harry realises only then that Eggsy spoke before, and can’t recall what he said.

“Good evening.” Oh, but Harry sounds ridiculous even to his own ears: deep and broken and the sort of mellow that usually requires intoxicants - and a lot of them, these days.

“Prick. I thought you’d passed out on me!”

Harry’s not completely convinced he didn’t, for a moment or two, but that’s not to worry about. He stretches his arms up and out to Eggsy like a child wanting to be carried, and Eggsy slings a towel onto Harry’s body before joining him. Sensible boy. Lovely boy. Harry hums with approval as he rubs his nose into Eggsy’s hair.

“You’re proper gone, ain’t you. You alright though?”

The fog lifts enough for Harry to realise he’s being ridiculous.

“I am very, very much alright. You were wonderful.”  Eggsy will be blushing now. He doesn’t like the  _ how was it for you  _  talk, said once that he felt like he was being reviewed and, in a flash of that no longer surprising emotional eloquence, that he didn’t see sex as a performance measured exercise but on this occasion Harry can imagine he’s excused. “That was exactly what I hoped for, and…” he sighs out a long breath, wrung out right down to the marrow of his bones and truly enjoying the sensation. “...yes. Bloody well done.”

That’s enough to get Eggsy to drop it with a chuckle, and a cuddle which might be the most loving and comfortable they’ve ever shared, but then, Harry’s still recovering.

When they do get up to wash - and strip the bed, they deserve a long and unsoggy sleep at the very least - Eggsy has red nail lines carved into the smooth meat of his back. When he manages to stagger to the bathroom, Harry spots a couple of Eggsy’s hallmark low hickeys but nothing around the throat, nothing specific but a thorough blush to show for the evening’s adventure.

It takes a day or two to come out, and when it does there’s no hiding it with a collar, but Harry doesn’t think it’s all that incriminating. Just a prickled area of bruising on the left side of Harry’s throat and a single point on his right… a thumb print. But it could easily be a bitemark or anything less specific and it barely shows. Considering the regularity with which he sports some sort of token of Eggsy’s affection under the jaw or behind the ears, certainly not enough to warrant interest unless you knew what you were looking for and Harry has not made this particular little interest public knowledge. 

“You jammy old bastard, you finally got him to do it.”

But then, Harry supposes, there’s no hiding anything from Merlin.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tah daaah!  
> Please do click that nice little heart or, even more loved, drop me some feedback if you enjoyed! It is my life blood.   
> I also like new friends on twitter - @agentsnakebite 
> 
> Thank you for reading xx


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